


New Years Eve or Ten People Who have Kissed Clint Barton

by whoistorule



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - High School, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoistorule/pseuds/whoistorule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first heavy bong of the specialized clock Tony Stark's hung for his hullabaloo brings the rhythmic thrashing of bodies of the party to an organized sort of chaos as everybody hunts for the appropriate person to kiss.  In the throng of wanting bodies, Clint is the only one who remains still, calm, buzzing with beer and nerves, his heart eager and his eyes keen.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>For Emily and my very important Clint-centric High School AU.</p><p>Please forgive the large ship list in the tags there are a lot of ships mentioned/covered in this...</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Years Eve or Ten People Who have Kissed Clint Barton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionlannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionlannister/gifts).



_Ten_

\--

The first heavy bong of the specialized clock Tony Stark's hung for his hullabaloo brings the rhythmic thrashing of bodies of the party to an organized sort of chaos as everybody hunts for the appropriate person to kiss.  In the throng of wanting bodies, Clint is the only one who remains still, calm, buzzing with beer and nerves, his heart eager and his eyes keen.  

\--

He's fourteen when Natasha first kisses him, his first real kiss, with lipstick and tongue.  She kisses like she means it, like she's practiced this before, like he's not her first and he won't be her last.  It's nice.  Comfortable even.  The red leather of the car she's too young to drive, though no one ever seems to tell her that, is sticky against his back in the Texas summer heat, and he lays his head back against the vinyl when she's done, his lips stinging with the aftertaste of her French cigarettes and her Russian smile.

\--

_Nine_

_\--_

He can see Steve on the balcony, his blonde hair bright, Tony's reds and folds exploding in the sky, nestling in the sheen of Peggy's dark hair beside him.  They alone have escaped the dance floor, and Clint turns his head from them.  There are so few quiet, perfect moments in this life.  Who is he to ruin theirs?

\--

The crowd’s chanting Steve’s name.  “Rogers! Rogers!” It’s as rhythmic as a drumbeat, makes his blood run hot, burns the fire of war through his veins.  Clint’s not one to believe in fate, but there are times in life when everything happens perfectly, when the stars align, when things move in slow motion.  A defender falls beneath him, and then another, until he’s running past that last thick line of white paint, and the ball falls neatly to his chest.  There’s quiet for just a second, and then the roar hits.  It’s not until Steve’s helmet’s bumping against his, until he’s being hoisted aloft on Bruce’s shoulders, that Clint realizes the name they’re shouting is his.

\--

_Eight_

\--

Tony is with Pepper at the top of the stairs, his arms outstretched, conducting the crowd in their countdown, as Pepper rolls her eyes. Come New Years, eight seconds from now, they'll be wrapped around one another same as every other couple in the place.  For all that Tony's an unrepentant narcissist and Pepper a type A do-gooder, Clint can see the appeal, the way they fit when nothing else does.

\--

When Tony kisses, he does it to win. His kisses have a precision that falls away the more they drink, but there’s a deliberation there Clint finds comforting. He’s not who Tony most wants to kiss, but he’s not bad either.  Tony wants him, or he wants him enough, and Clint’s gone too long without wanting to give up the bits of it he gets.  Drink-heavy head against some sort of animal skin rug (bear? tiger? did camels have fur?) there’s no expectation, no want of a fight, just a domination that Clint gives in to easily.  He doesn’t have to be better, he doesn’t even have to be good, he can just _be_.  

\--

_Seven_

\--

There’s cigar smoke in the air, sifting out from under a dark wooden doorway above the stairs, and the muffled sounds of expensive laughter and lacquered nails.  Howard Stark’s lair is the dark cloud that hangs above the merriment.  Tony may be ringmaster of his three-ring circus, but it’s Howard Stark’s money that’s gathered them there under the pulsing lights, and Clint loathes it.

\--

At eleven, this kiss is familiar to him. It comes in a pair.  First it's the sting of his father's belt, his eyes red and squinting with humiliation, with pain, with a deep abiding loathing and the basilisk beneath his skin freezing him in place, whispering that he deserves it.

Next is the cool press of his mother’s lips to his temple, and the murmurs of her voice, humming low beneath his fathers tangent anger, telling him that it will be okay, that one day it will be over.

He's never sure which he hates more, the cruel kiss or the false one.

\--

_Six_

\--

Jessica Drew’s not the kind of woman to wait around for a boy, so Clint’s not surprised when he sees her with one of the first-string safeties, her arms twined around his neck, her smile tinged only a little bit with plastic. Clint’s sure the boy doesn’t know, hell, he’s probably grateful just to be noticed by her.  Clint knows he was.  That’s probably why he fucked it up in the first place.  After all, girls like Jessica Drew don’t come around often.  Hot, smart, and ass-kickingly cool, Clint had no idea how he even picked her up, only that he couldn’t do much but stare at her in action.  He knows the look on that safety’s face, and tries not to envy him too much.  Who is he to envy, when he’s nothing but a fuck up?  He’s happy for Jess.  Well.  He’s trying.

\--

Arms thrown around his neck, hips wedged against his, Clint can feel his heart beating fast.  He’s not sure how this happened, but leans into it, running his calloused hands through her thick hair, letting her push him against the lockers until he’s gasping for breath.

It’s not until she breaks the kiss, red hair sticking to her lip… stuff, knotting between his fingers, that he sees Jessica behind her, jaw dropped, eyes glassy with tears.

Clint wasn’t even sure why she dated him in the first place, but one thing was clear.  They sure as hell weren’t dating now.

\--

_Five_

\--

She called herself Cherry, but Natasha told him later her name was Penny, that redheaded rally girl.  Cherry didn’t even go to their school, but somehow she ended up wherever Clint was.  She was at the used car dealership when he got his pick up, and she was at the school after that game, and here she was again, at Tony’s party, flitting through the crowd looking for him.  

\--

Clint’s not sure how he got himself into this, but somehow he finds himself in the backseat of his car, her legs straddling him, her cotton shirt adorning his steering wheel in the darkness.  Each time she kisses him, he can feel his heart beating faster, his stomach sinking bit by bit.  But he can’t stop her, no matter how much he knows he’s fucking up his life, his friendships, his girlfriend’s feelings--

“Cherry, stop, that was my, well, she was my girlfriend maybe? Girl who is a friend. I mean. We dated. Or maybe not. But are you sure we should be doing this?”

Her laugh’s teasing, almost menacing in this close quarters.  “Clint, honey, shut up.”

He does.

\--

_Four_

\--

They’re exchange students from well… somewhere that makes tall blonde men, Clint’s not really sure.  Sweden maybe?  Switzerland?  Was that one of those?  He’s pretty sure it’s not Finland, if only because that’s the one with the fish song on YouTube, but he likes the big one well enough.  Thor.  He joined the football team even.  Made a killer tight end.  It would be enough to make Clint jealous if the guy wasn’t so fucking nice.  Also weird.  He talked like he was in one of those old timey plays like Romeo and Juliet or something.

(Kate made him go to see that for culture or something.  Clint didn’t really like it, except for the sword fighting.  That part was pretty cool.)

Yeah Thor was all right.  It was his brother Clint didn’t like.  Loki was sneaky, and there was something in his eyes that made Clint uneasy.  Like he was taking you apart with his eyes until you were nothing but nuts and bolts and putting you back together wrong.  Like he knew all of your secrets.  Like he wasn’t afraid to make you cry.

\--

The dust of Texas isn’t much different than the dust in Afghanistan, or at least that’s what Barney’s letters say.  Red hair cropped short, uniform pulling his shoulders straight, Barney’s hug was so tight it left bruises.  It was only a short leave he got after basic -- three days home, most of which he spent paying off bills and waking up early to fix things around the house (the squeak of the screen door played at a piano now instead of forte, the light in the bathroom stopped flickering, the drip in the sink faucet steadied to a light trickle) -- but Clint drank up every second of it, following his brother around, grinding his teeth to keep from asking Barney to take him with him, or worse, asking him not to go at all.

His brother’s lips were chapped as they pressed against his forehead, a kiss he still feels when he flips through the pages, and he can hear his brother’s voice whisper.  “Just a few more years, brother, then you can get out of here, too.”

It’s not much, but it’s something.

\--

_Three_

\--

His eyes find Natasha in the crowd, her red hair’s a lighthouse beacon, bright and glittery already, gold flakes of confetti glinting like fireworks every time she moves.  Clint’s almost embarrassed at how easily he recognizes the curl at the back of Bucky’s neck, and how if he closes his eyes he can feel it slipping through his own fingers.  Cheeks red, he turns away.  They’re happy, and he won’t be the one to ruin it.  Not tonight.  Natasha deserves happiness, and if whatever Bucky’s whispering in her ear is making her laugh tinkle like little Russian bells, he won’t be the one to ruin it.

\--

There’s blood in his mouth, and Clint runs his tongue over the split in his lip once, twice, before grinning.  It was his fault anyway.  He’s the one that punched Bucky in the showers, once everyone else had left.  He’s the one who shoved him into the teal tiles and ended ass-down against the still damp ground, his towel falling around his knees.

“Sorry, bro,” Bucky mumbles, offering him a hand, but all Clint does is pull him down next to him and kiss him, hard.  Clint’s been kissed by boys before, but Bucky’s the first one he chooses for himself.  It’s messy and bloody and so fucking right, his heart beating so loud Clint swears he can hear it echo against the metal lockers.

Footsteps break them from their reverie, and the sound of Steve Roger’s call of “Bucky?” brings Clint’s heart to his throat.  A beat passes, and then another, until blood-lipped Bucky calls out “Be out in a minute!” and Clint wants to throw up.

But instead of shame on Bucky’s face, Clint sees a smile.  “We’ll have to finish this another time, Barton,” and he’s gone.

It takes Clint ten minutes to peel himself off of the floor and out to Natasha’s waiting car, but she doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t comment, she just smiles.

\--

_Two_

\--

Eli Bradley is the best JV quarterback in Texas, but as far as Clint’s concerned, the boy could be a presidentially-approved saint-in-waiting and Clint still wouldn’t want anyone’s hands all over Katie-Kate.  He doesn’t know why but it makes him so angry he wants to punch through a wall.

He doesn’t, of course.  Not just because the clocks almost run out, and he can see from Kate’s smile how happy she is to be in his arms, and he clenches his fists just to keep them occupied.

She’s not his, Clint knows that, he would never try to say otherwise, but sometimes, silly as it is, Clint can’t help but wonder if he’s hers.

\--

Perfect though she is, Kate Bishop is like nine years old, Clint rationalizes, which is why he’s definitely not marveling at how hot she looks in her tight purple dress.  It’s some shiny shimmery fabric that seems to move with her, or before her, like some sort of magic, and with her bangs swept aside she looks older.  Like, a lot older.

“Come _on_ , Barton,” she says, tugging his hand, and a smile grows on his lips. “What?  What is it?  Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”

The way she rubs at her teeth with her finger brings a laugh gurgling up, a great big bellyaching one, and once he’s started he can’t stop.  With every pout and frown on Kate’s face, he just laughs harder, until she’s hands on her hips angry, face scrunched tiny and mean.

“Clint Barton if you don’t stop laughing this _instant,_ I will leave for Homecoming without you and then how will you get there!”

He smiles, tugging his tie loose to give himself air.  “Sorry Katie, I’ll stop.”

With a sigh, she pushes his tie back into place, straightening his collar between her dextrous fingers.  “You better.”  On tiptoe, Kate leans to give him a kiss on the cheek, but before he can stop himself, Clint turns his head, catching her lips with his own, brushing them with a light kiss.  When she pulls away, she’s blushing, and Clint averts his eyes, offering her his arm.

“Come on, Bishop.  We’re going to be late.”

\--

_One_

\--

He’s alone, of course he is, as he can hear the beginnings of the celebrations around him, couple’s jumping the gun with wet kisses, and champagne bottles popping from on high.  Loud cheering starts to grumble from the masses and Clint feels self pity build in his stomach like bile as he wanders through the crowd.

It’s like sweat when you’re swimming, the way the sweat against your skin makes you feel oily in the water, smooth and slick he slides through the crowd until he hits the edge of the room, utterly and completely alone.

\--

Years later, he’ll have someone to kiss at midnight.  It’s college, a place he barely makes it to in the first place, and she’s perfect.  Blonde and bright and she can kick his ass to boot.  He finds himself studying, just so he can keep up with her, and finding romantic gestures, a rose on her pillow, chocolates after class, just to make her smile.  Clint doesn’t know what she sees in him, he never understands what any of them do, but with her, for a little while, he’ll believe it.

Years later as the numbers count down, Clint will find himself on his knees, ringless, unprepared, with her hands in his and he’ll ask her to marry him.

Years later, Bobbi Morse will say yes.

\--

_Happy New Year!_

\--

Eyes closed, Clint jumps at the twin touches at his sides.  Red lacquered nails slide around his stomach from one side, as Natasha’s lips fit against his forehead, and Bucky’s lopsided grin is unmistakable as his teeth take to Clint’s jaw.

“Happy New Year,” Natasha brushes his hair from his sweat-matted forehead with a smile.  “Come dance with us.”

With Natasha leading him, his right hand clasped in her smaller one, and Bucky’s football calloused hand unclenching his fist to wrap safely around his left, Clint tries not to smile.

Maybe this year, he wasn’t so alone.

Maybe this year would be different.

Maybe this year would be better.

Just maybe.


End file.
